On my final day in the Combat Outpost (COP) I found myself with a half-a-day to kill before my convoy out. Just after breakfast I bumped into Captain Alexis Legros and he mentioned that there would be a security Shura that morning. He also dropped into the conversation that last night they had captured the Mullah.

Apparently some decent “intelligence” had come in that there were four “new people” in the village. So in the middle of the night the Canadians went out to grab them. When they arrived at the compound though there was no one there but a small family.

So goes the “intelligence” business in rural Afghanistan. It is often difficult to tell the real intel from the grudges being settled – conveniently using the Canadians as the hammer.

So there was no one to grab, but the operation did come across a suspicious dude wandering around. He tested clean for explosives and gunpowder residue but had a whack of cash on his person. So they pulled him in. At first he gave a false name before finally coming clean that he was the much sought after Mullah. Yup – the self–same “alleged” Mosque using – IED making, Taliban financing, insurgent hotel running Mullah, from previous blogs.

They let him go for lack of evidence. No really.

But apparently he was expected to show up at the Shura. That sounded like a good mornings work to me so I said I would tag along.

The “Security Shura” is a regular meeting with the local village elders to discuss any security concerns they may have. This particular Shura was held in under a large tree in a farm field near the COP.

I helped Sergeant Tony Swainson load water into the back of a gator, and then hitched a ride to where some sixty villagers waited in the shade.

The scene was reminiscent of a big family picnic. Captain Legros started out by shaking the hand of everyone waiting. The soldiers took off their body armour. Plates of dates and nuts were passed out. The water we had brought was given out too. There were smiles and casual banter as we waited for everyone to arrive.

It was only as I stepped away from the group to try and get everyone in frame that the illusion of a casual gathering started to disintegrate. There were ANA sentries posted in the far distance every thirty degrees – then inside that a further phalanx of Canadians. And then for those who thought even that too trusting — there was this guy on a nearby rooftop.

Eventually, everyone who was anyone in the village was there. The poor misunderstood Taliban fathering Mullah was there. So was the guy who owned the corner store and purportedly built IEDs. So were the Taliban sympathetic village elders. So were a bunch of presumably innocent farmers and villagers.

For the next couple of hours I photographed the throng as they discussed their concerns. At one point a very large explosion in the distance made everyone pause for a millisecond. I looked around but when no one seemed perturbed I went back to what I was doing.

Most of the talking was done by the village elder spokesperson sitting beside the Mullah. The Mullah did not speak directly, but spoke often to the elder doing the talking. There was a subtle undercurrent of “bull-shittery” to all this. The Canadians believe they know whom they can trust here, and the local Afghans believe they can tell the Canadians what they want to hear.

So for most of the meeting the senior elders complained about their friends who had been taken and not released, and the Canadians seemed to listen. And then the Canadians complained about the IEDs – that are still being found – and the necessity that the villagers tell them when the Taliban are nearby, and the villagers seemed to listen. This sleight-of-hand stage-show-farce continued for the next couple of hours, until much to everyone’s surprise one of the villagers broke the deadlock.

An elderly villager stepped forward and addressed the group through the interpreter. “These men are all lying” he said. Then he sat down in the grass looking terrified. Then he continued. “The Taliban were in the village just last night, threatening anyone who is working on the road.”

Major Christian Marquis who had been keeping to the background stepped forward and knelt beside the man in the grass. “I want to thank you for your bravery.” He said.

At this point the old man — who moments before was very brave — seemed to realize what he had done — and found himself a seat in the background again.

Major Marquis attempted to continue the debate, but suddenly people were standing. It seemed the Mullah and the elders had decided that this particular shura was done for the day.

Following the lead of the Mullah and the others the villagers all started to stand up and leave. The villagers gradually drifted away. At the end only the Canadian soldiers and a few ANA remained in the field.

I helped load the benches and unused water back into the gators, then — with body armour on again – I walked back to the base with the Major Marquis and Captain Legros.

I spent the remainder of the day chasing down a few of the dozens of loose ends I had left untied. Somehow I caught up with three engineers from a patrol I went on weeks ago, whose details I had neglected to get. They were from a completely different COP and just happened to be passing through. The loose end gods were with me.

I found out — I can’t remember how – that the explosion earlier in the day had killed two police officers.

Back at my tent for the last time, I basked in the 44 degree heat inside as I packed up my sketchpads, laptop, sleeping bag/mat, and then threw out some of my more disgusting clothing. I gave an unused sketchpad to Pvt. Sebastien Tremblay in the infantry tent next door — he had expressed an interest in sketching.

Then I went and stood in the sun to wait for my ride.

My trip back to KAF was inside an OpSec [redacted for Operational Security] vehicle. It is designed as an almost OpSecOpSec method for moving OpSec personnel. It looks like an OpSec. And is about as comfortable as an OpSec. You spend the whole trip OpSec. It is way worse than flying Ariana. The whole trip felt like someone had rammed an OpSec up my OpSec, then OpSeced my inner ear for good measure. They didn’t serve any meals.

I arrived back at KAF well after dark, nauseous, disorientated but glad to be alive. A small group of journalists made me feel very welcome upon my return. My fellow correspondent Brian Hutchinson said he had bought “near beer” for me, but then explained he had had to drink them all himself — because they were so bad.